


Weekend Lover

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Meet the Family, No murder, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4551426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurel needs a boyfriend for the weekend. Frank is more than happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The obligatory fake dating fic every ship needs. Because why not.
> 
> I’m not entirely sure how often I’ll be able to update this, as I’m starting college in two weeks, moving into the dorms, and basically undergoing a bunch of huge personal changes at the moment. But I have free time on my hands right now at least, and so I’m back for the time being. 
> 
> This fic won’t be very long, probably only about eight or nine chapters, at the most. Short but sweet ;)

It’d all started with a phone call from the last person Laurel ever wants to talk to: her mother. 

“Vanessa’s getting married this weekend. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten,” she’d said, her voice dripping with condescension. “I bought you two plane tickets.”

Laurel had frozen. “Two?”

“Yes. Bring one of those boyfriends of yours. I would’ve bought you three, but… well, I think having both of them there might cause a bit of drama, don’t you?”

Already she hadn’t been looking forward to her sister’s wedding; after the Christmas dinner fiasco, Laurel has been more than happy to remain in Philadelphia, hundreds of miles away from her parents. Seeing them again will suck, and so will seeing most of her siblings, who all fall into line behind their dad like perfect little soldiers.

And now she has to bring a plus-one, a complication that makes this already shitty situation infinitely shittier.

She goes to Kan first, of course, because he’s her actual boyfriend, but he’s swamped in work and managing Middleton’s legal aid clinic almost single-handedly. Wes is next on her list of possibilities, but he’s buried in projects for his classes too and very politely declines, though it’s clear he feels bad about it. She’s not entirely sure that would have worked anyway, because however much she likes Wes, she’s never seen him as anything other than just a friend. He’s more like her brother.

She’s agonizing over it late one night as she, Connor, and Michaela sit in the living room in their customary circle, flipping through case files and exchanging thinly-veiled jabs at each other. Asher is off somewhere, having disappeared suspiciously at the same time as Bonnie, and Annalise called Wes into her office ten minutes ago, leaving Laurel alone with the two people that she really does not like being alone with, ever.

As if reading her mind, Connor looks over at her just then, notices the obvious look of worry on her face, and smirks.

“What’s the matter? Still worried about finding a date?” Her head snaps up in surprise, along with Michaela’s, and she shoots him a look of disbelief. He shrugs. “Overheard you on the phone with mommy dearest. And before you ask, no thanks. Playing straight isn’t my thing.”

Michaela furrows her brow. “What’s he talking about?”

Laurel opens her mouth to reply, but Connor pipes up again, “You know, you could always just pretend to be a lesbian and take Michaela.”

“All right, what the hell’s going on?” the other girl raises her voice.

Connor and Michaela both look to Laurel expectantly, and she sighs. “I need a date for my sister’s wedding. A temporary boyfriend.”

“Why not just ask your _actual_ boyfriend?” Michaela suggests with a judgmental glare. “Boring, bleeding-heart legal aid guy?”

Laurel’s shoulders slump in exhaustion. It’s clear this is going to be another one of Connor and Michaela’s trademark interrogation sessions, and she really isn’t in the mood for it tonight.

“I already did. He’s busy with work. Speaking of which, I really think we should get back to-“

“Ask Waitlist, then,” Connor puts in. “Think of how adorable a couple you’d make.”

“Don’t call him that,” she tells him. “And I asked him too. He can’t do it.”

Connor chuckles. “That leaves you with our dear old Doucheface. Unless…”

He drifts off in feigned contemplation, his eyes drifting into the next room. When Laurel follows his gaze, she finds him staring directly at Frank, who is seated at Bonnie’s desk, turning the pages of the prosecution’s discovery file and taking notes.

Connor gives her a knowing look. Laurel buries her face back into her paperwork, and pretends not to notice.

She really, _really_ doesn’t want to ask Frank. But… well, Frank she _can_ actually tolerate, as long as he isn’t being an ass and managing to abstain from making sexual innuendo. They’d make a convincing couple, and she’s almost sure her parents will hate him, which is a plus – because Frank definitely isn’t the kind of guy you bring home to your mom and dad. Frank is the guy you screw a few times and then send on his way.

Which, ironically, was exactly what she’d done.

It’s a bad idea, Laurel tells herself, even as she approaches him at the coffee pot after everyone else has left for the night. How the hell has she gotten to such a point in her life that she’s taking advice from _Connor_?  

“I need your help,” Laurel blurts out, before she has the opportunity to second guess herself. He raises an eyebrow suggestively, and she makes a sound of disgust. “Not _that_ kind of help.”

“Darn,” Frank laments, turning his full attention to her. “What can I do for you?”

“My sister’s getting married this weekend, in Palm Beach,” she sighs. “I need a date. Well, not a date. A… boyfriend.”

He chuckles, not missing a beat. “You want me to be your fake boyfriend.”

“I already asked Kan and Wes, and they can’t do it, and-“ 

“-and I’m your last resort?” he finishes for her. “You asked the Puppy before you asked me? I’m insulted.”

Suddenly wondering why she’d ever thought this would be a good idea, Laurel exhales sharply. “You know what? I never should’ve asked.”

She starts to walk away, but Frank calls out to stop her. “Never said I wouldn’t do it. But why not just fly solo? If I’m your last resort?”

“Because… The last time I was home, at Christmas, I kind of…” Finally, she purses her lips and admits, “I kind of told everyone at the dinner table I was dating two guys at the same time. And now my mom won’t stop bugging me about bringing one of them home and-“

Amused, Frank echoes incredulously, “You told your whole family you were dating two guys at the same time.”

Laurel holds back a groan of frustration. She should’ve known he would latch onto the word _dating_ , even when they weren’t. Ever. _Fucking_ would be a much more appropriate term.

“Yeah, I did,” she snaps, exasperated. “I wanted to… I don’t know, shock them. And I know my parents won’t like you-“

“Well, it’s your lucky day. Pissing off parents happens to be my specialty. But what exactly do I get out of this?”

That catches Laurel off guard. She hadn’t actually gotten this far in the conversation when she’d envisioned it in her head.

“Um… a free weekend in Palm Beach. My parents are loaded, so an open bar at the reception with expensive liquor. And…” she drifts off and rolls her eyes, forcing herself to adopt a half-assed syrupy-sweet tone. “And my eternal gratitude.”

Frank quirks an eyebrow, and for a moment she’s afraid he’ll ask if her ‘eternal gratitude’ includes blowjobs or something else equally crass. Thankfully, all he does is shrug and pick up his coffee mug.

“You had me at open bar.”

As she watches him walk away, Laurel wonders for a second about the moral implications of asking the guy you used to cheat with to be your fake boyfriend, when you already have a boyfriend; a nice, amazing, sweet boyfriend who she should probably be spending the weekend with instead. Eventually, though, she decides to not to worry too much about it. It can’t be any worse than actually cheating on Kan, and fake cheating is completely different than actual cheating.

She should know. Actual cheating is something Laurel is a bit too familiar with.


	2. Chapter 2

By Wednesday, Laurel is starting to have serious doubts about her plan.

Spending a weekend pretending to be dating the guy she used to screw sounds like a veritable recipe for disaster, and with Frank it almost certainly is – though exactly what kind of disaster it’ll be, she can’t be sure.

Still, it sounds like much more of an appealing option than listening to her inevitably tipsy mother berate her all weekend for letting her twenties slip by without a man, “because these are your prime reproductive years, dear, and you’ll never get them back.” Plus, part of her really can’t wait for the moment her father sees Frank for the first time: tall, bearded, very obviously much older than her, and everything he won’t approve of.

They’re scheduled to leave late Friday, and so on Thursday, Laurel shows up at his door after work with two cartons of Chinese takeout in hand, to prep him for the whole meet-the-parents thing.

She tells him as much when he opens the door for her, and he has the gall to look offended. “You really have that little faith in me? I’m good at what I do.”

“Maybe,” Laurel shrugs and holds out one of the cartons to Frank as she steps inside. For an instant it occurs to her how weird this is: eating takeout with him at his place, like they’re friends – when they aren’t. They never have been. “But I’m not sending you in blind. And we need to set boundaries.”

“I’m getting free liquor and a weekend in Palm Beach. And I get to be with you the whole time,” he says, like it should be obvious. “I’m not gonna try anything.”

_And I get to be with you the whole time_. He’d said it like it was something that actually matters to him, more so than the booze or free vacation. Laurel shakes that thought away before she can dwell on it, shrugs off her coat, and sits down on his couch.

“So, first off: my dad,” she begins. “He’s the typical loud, overbearing Latino father. He’ll probably dislike you right off the bat because you’re older than me. And he’s the most conservative conservative there is, so if you mention how good a president Obama is, he’ll fly off the handle.”

Laurel chews for a moment, then continues, “Oh, and he’s really into firearms. Hunting. Second Amendment rights. So… say you’re all for gun control. That’ll hammer the last nail in your coffin.”

“You trying to get me shot here?”

“He won’t shoot you,” she says. “He did take one of my boyfriends over to his gun cabinet once and pretend to clean a rifle while pointing it at him, but he won’t actually…”

She drifts off suddenly, realizing how that must sound. A moment passes in silence.

“Y’know,” Frank finally remarks from his spot on the chair next to the couch, “the more I hear, the less I like this plan.”

“It’ll be fine. Now, my mom,” Laurel goes on. “She’ll be easy, because she’s usually drunk all the time or on some kind of prescription meds. Just say anything about how great you think it is I want to pursue a career instead of settling down. She was really mad when I told her I wanted to go to law school instead of just getting my MRS degree.”

“Well,” he sets down his carton and leans back in the chair, “between your drunk of a mom and dad who’ll try to murder me, this weekend sounds like it’ll be a blast.”

She chuckles dryly, poking at her food with her chopsticks. “Try living with them for eighteen years. It’s a miracle I turned out sane.”

“Now I remember why I never did the whole meet-the-parents thing.”

Laurel scoffs. That’s not surprising. “We still have to set boundaries.”

“Fine. Shoot.”

Her response is immediate. “No hands below the waist.”

“Oh c’mon. Where’s the fun in that?”

“I have a boyfriend,” she reminds him, though really, it’s more an attempt to remind herself.

“Not for the weekend.”

“Whatever,” Laurel shakes her head. “Back to the-“

“You know what’d really piss your folks off?” Frank interrupts her. “If we made out in front of them. With lots of tongue.”

_Lots of tongue_. She hides behind a look of revulsion, when in reality that sounds… more than okay with her, actually. It’s almost certain that they’ll have to kiss eventually, because that’s what couples do, and Laurel definitely isn’t looking forward to it. Not at all.

Not even a _little._

“No tongue,” she corrects him. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to escape this conversation, and more importantly, Frank’s presence, because her mind is starting to wander into dangerous territory. “And no… _making out_ at all – look, I should just go. I-I have an eight AM class tomorrow.”

Laurel stands and grabs her coat, making for the door with Frank following close behind. He holds it open for her, and she steps outside, then turns to look back at him at the last minute.

“Thanks again. For doing this.”

“What’re good boyfriends for?” Frank smirks. “You’re welcome, babe.”

She’d almost forgotten how much she had liked him calling her that, but Laurel makes herself glare regardless. “Don’t start calling me that yet.”

“Sure thing,” he says. “Babe.”

Frank closes the door before she has the chance to protest again.

 

\--

 

On Friday, they share a cab together to the airport after work.

Frank helps her with her luggage, which, in addition to his one suitcase, leaves him with a suitcase in each hand and a pink carry-on bag slung awkwardly over his shoulder which he keeps almost dropping. He grumbles something about how she could possibly need so much stuff for one weekend, but trails behind her otherwise without protest, until he notices her leading him over to a smaller, out-of-the-way terminal without a security checkpoint.

“Where’re you going?” he asks. “Gate A2’s that way.”

Laurel looks over her shoulder at him and opens a door leading out onto the tarmac. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. My dad cancelled our tickets. He sent the jet instead.”

Frank furrows his brow. “The jet?”

The instant he steps outside, Frank stops in his tracks. It’s dark, but the lights illuminating the runway leave the private jet perfectly visible, with the air stairs lowered and the pilot waiting beside it. Laurel turns to look at Frank, and finds him staring at it, eyebrows raised.

“Your family owns a private jet,” he remarks incredulously.

She shrugs, and walks over to it with Frank hot on her heels. “What? You didn’t believe me when I told you they were loaded?”

“I believed you. I didn’t know you meant _this_ loaded.”

“Miss Laurel,” the pilot greets her with a smile, then turns to Frank and reaches for their luggage. “Let me get those for you, sir.”

Laurel smiles at the man, thanks him, and climbs inside. After giving him the luggage, Frank follows suit, muttering a stunned “holy shit” under his breath as he takes it all in: the white leather seats and sofa, the polished mahogany foldable tables, the spotless beige carpet. There’s a television mounted in the wall, and even a little bedroom in the cabin furthest back, with freshly-made sheets.

It doesn’t faze Laurel. She’s been in and out of places like this all her life, but Frank looks as if he’s never seen anything like it, plopping down onto the sofa and glancing around with his mouth slightly agape.

After a minute, his eyes finally come to rest on her. “So what? You grew up in private jets like this?”

“Yeah,” she says, sitting down in a seat across the aisle. “Why, is that surprising?”

Frank shrugs. “Kinda. You don’t seem like the spoiled-little-rich-girl type.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Damn. After this we should get fake-married,” he jokes as he extends an arm across the backrest. “I can quit my job. You can be my sugar mama.”

Laurel can’t help but laugh at that – because sure, after that disastrous encounter with his girlfriend, they haven’t exactly been speaking much, but she does genuinely find Frank funny, and she likes talking to him. Bantering. She’s missed that witty flirtation they used to have, actually, before everything went to shit.

And there’s nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation this weekend that no one ever has to find out about.

“Very funny,” she snorts. “Like you’d ever actually get married.”

Another shrug. “Who says I wouldn’t? Maybe I just haven’t found the right girl yet.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Well, you seem to be very busy looking.”

“Not so much anymore,” he replies, straight-faced. “I have a girlfriend. For this weekend, anyway. Maybe you’ve heard of her.”

She decides to play along. “I haven’t. Maybe you could… tell me a little about her?”

“She’s a rich girl. Doesn’t act like it though. I work with her, actually.”

“Do you?” she asks softly, and oh, she can feel her heart in her throat. This is not good. This is not a drill.

“Yeah. She’s the only person in that office I actually like; the rest are brown-nosing gunners who don’t know when to keep their mouths shut. She doesn’t talk a lot. But when she does, people listen. _I_ listen. She rubs her lips together sometimes, when she’s really focusing. Or bites on the end of a pen. It’s distracting as hell. I don’t get a ton of work done when she’s around.”

She should tell him to stop. She’s tingling all over – and yes, _down there_ , too, where she should definitely _not_ be. His voice is like velvet in her ear, and she squeezes her thighs together almost unconsciously as she listens.

“She’s beautiful, too,” he goes on to say. “Pretty face. Long legs. Amazing body. I could look into her eyes for hours. She looks at me like she thinks I’m kidding when I compliment her, but I’m not. She’s smart, too. Doesn’t take crap from anyone – not even me. And she’s got a killer sense of humor. The whole package, really.”

She’s sure the blush on her cheeks is obvious. “Well, she sounds… really incredible.”

“She is,” Frank says as he leans back, his eyes dancing. “Some might even say she’s wife material.”

“Would you?” The words burst out of her mouth almost on their own, breathy, almost like a half-whisper. “Say that, I mean?”

“I would. You’d have to ask her if she’d want to be, though. She’s still kinda mad at me. I had a long-distance girlfriend I didn’t tell her about.” He pauses, voice and gaze heavy with meaning. “Maybe one day she’ll forgive me.”

She should not answer that. She should not encourage him. She should _not_ -

“She could,” Laurel breathes. “One day.”

Frank appears to be about to open his mouth to say something when the sudden rumbling of the engines, followed by the pilot’s scratchy voice over the intercom, stops him.

“ _I’m sure by now you know the drill._ _Please remain seated and secure your belongings during takeoff. We’ll be arriving in Palm Beach in approximately three hours, Miss Laurel_.”

Laurel isn’t impolite or snobby; under any other circumstances, she would press the intercom button and thank the pilot, but she’s frozen in place, and probably white as a ghost. Icy tendrils of terror, that she’d managed to ward off thus far by absorbing herself in conversation with Frank, coil themselves around her like vines as she listens to the roaring of the engines.

She feels like she can’t breathe. Her pulse quickens, and it doesn’t take Frank long to look over and notice her distress.

Concerned, he gets to his feet and crouches beside her. “Laurel? Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing, it’s…” she drifts off, shaking her head. “I-it’s stupid. I just… A few years ago, we were on a flight to… California, a-and we hit some really bad turbulence – like, _really_ bad. And we all thought we’d go down but we didn’t and ever since then I get really bad-”

“Flight anxiety?” he finishes for her.

She nods. “Only during takeoff and landing, though. I-I’ll be fine once we’re in the air. But – oh God, I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing-”

“No, hey, it’s fine,” Frank tells her. Much to her surprise, he reaches over and takes her hand. “Just listen to my voice, okay?”

Laurel nods, giving a pathetic whimper, like a scared animal. Gently, he starts massaging the area between her thumb and forefinger, shushing her and murmuring “it’s okay, you’re okay” over and over, until she kind of starts to believe it. The rhythmic stroking of his finger, coupled with his soothing voice, makes her relax almost immediately.

A few minutes pass, and then finally, there it is: that blessed weightlessness. Her ears pop, signaling that they’re in the air, and she finally opens her eyes. When she does, she finds Frank still crouched at her side, his eyes soft.

He gives her a little grin and squeezes her hand. “Good?”

“Yeah,” she pants. “Yeah, thanks.”

He doesn’t let go. He keeps holding her hand, with a grip that lets her know he doesn’t intend to let go unless she makes him – and part of her doesn’t _want_ to make him. Part of her just really wants to kiss him and drag him back to the bedroom, actually, but the mostly-decent-human-being part of Laurel reminds her that she can’t do that. She can’t start blurring the lines between what’s real and what’s pretend, not if she’s going to make it through this weekend and still able to consider herself a good person when it’s over.

Forcing herself to picture Kan, and replay the moment she’d come face to face with Frank’s girlfriend, she frowns and tugs her hand away.

“You don’t have to play that part yet.”

For a moment he looks hurt by that, but his ego recovers quickly. “Well, never hurts to practice, does it?”

Laurel just glares at him, and, getting the message, he stands and walks back across the aisle to the sofa. Once he’s seated, however, he just meets her eyes again and winks.

Her heart flutters. Oh God, what the _hell_ has she gotten herself into?


	3. Chapter 3

“I should’ve had you wear something else.”

“What’s wrong with my suit?”

“It’s too nice. My dad likes guys who are well-dressed. You should’ve worn… jeans. Ripped jeans.”

“While I’m at it, want me to put on a wifebeater and gel my hair into a fauxhawk too?”

Laurel just rolls her eyes, and steps out of the Rolls Royce her dad had sent to pick them up at the airport. Her parent’s mansion looms over them imposingly, with its white stucco walls and enormous windows and burnt-orange terra cotta roof. It’s almost midnight, and the circular driveway is illuminated by little lights on the ground that lead up to the front porch.

As they approach the door, she notices Frank looking up at the place with a frown. “Kinda excessive, don’t you think?”

She yawns and wipes the sweat off her brow.

“Excessive isn’t in my dad’s vocabulary. Just remember the plan, okay? Get them to hate you.”

“That might be a little hard, _dear_ ,” he remarks, placing a hand on the small of her back to draw her close. “Seeing as I’m naturally charming.”

Laurel gives him one final warning glare, and rings the doorbell. “Don’t call me that.”

She wrings her hands nervously before she can remember not to, that old instinctive fear of her parents taking hold of her all at once. She just wants to get this over with. Rip off the hypothetical Band-Aid.

Shockingly enough, it’s not a maid who answers the door; it’s her mother, perfectly put-together in a navy blue pantsuit and full makeup, like its midday and not midnight. Laurel forces a smile for her sake, which her mother mirrors on her own face and then leans in, pulling her into a hug.

She pecks her on the cheek, then pulls back to look at her. “Laurel, honey. How was your flight?”

“It was fine.”

“Well, we waited up for you. And this must be the boy we’ve been – oh. Well.”

The instant her eyes flick over to look at Frank, her mouth snaps shut. No one in the world would describe Frank as a _boy_ , and her mother raises her immaculately plucked eyebrows, appearing as though she is thinking the same thing.

There’s a brief, awkward pause, the only sound to be heard the chorus of chirping crickets in the background. Then, just as Frank seems about to end it by shaking her hand, Laurel’s father appears at her mother’s side, stops to take in the sight of the two of them, before reaching out to hug Laurel tensely.

“ _Mija._ There you are,” he greets, moving away and looking over at Frank. “And this is?”

Frank extends his hand, an amiable grin on his face. “Frank Delfino. The boyfriend.”

“Victor Castillo,” he introduces himself, his chested puffed up and his chin raised. “This is my wife, Camila. We’re happy to finally meet you.”

Her mom gives Frank another smile that fails to reach her eyes. “We’ve heard _so_ much about you, Frank.”

“Have you?” Frank glances over at Laurel, then winks at her parents. “All bad, I hope.”

There’s another, longer moment of silence, during which her father does nothing but eye Frank up. Not only is he everything her dad doesn’t approve of, but he’s also at least half a head taller than him, and he has to look up to meet his eyes properly, which only seems to make him more wary. The wink hadn’t helped much, either.

Thankfully, her mom has the good sense to intervene. “Well, you two must be tired. We won’t keep you up. I had the maids make up one of the guest rooms for you. We just got the upstairs renovated.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Laurel yawns again. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

By now Laurel is almost swaying on her feet from exhaustion, grabbing her suitcase from where the driver had left it near the door and making for the stairs. Frank does the same, but they come to a halt abruptly when her mother calls after them.

“Oh, and we’re having brunch on the yacht tomorrow at ten. Jaime and David and Vanessa will all be there. I know they’re looking forward to seeing you.”

Her siblings. Great. Jaime, her eldest brother, is the only one of them she actually likes. She’s the youngest; they’re all married – or about to be married – with families of their own, and she doesn’t see them much anymore, except at the obligatory family Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving dinners.

However, Laurel just hides her true feeling behind what feels like her twentieth fake smile in ten minutes. She’d forgotten how good she is at doing that.

“Great. We’ll be there.”

With that, she turns and begins to ascend the stairs. Ever the gentleman, Frank takes her suitcase out of her hands and lugs it up along with his own, following as she leads him down a long hallway with marble floors and paintings adorning every wall.

“That was good,” she tells him. “They already don’t like you.”

Frank gives her a doubtful look. “I said like five words to them. And did you really tell them about me?”

“No,” she chuckles. “That’s just what my mom always says when she meets someone and doesn’t know what to say. Plus, they weren’t expecting you to look like you do.”

“No offense, but they’re not exactly the most welcoming people.”

“None taken. I was raised by a string of nannies. That’s how I turned out normal.”

Their bedroom is large, spacious, all dark wood and white walls. Sparsely but tastefully decorated, with a king-sized platform bed, a balcony that overlooks the backyard and pool, and adjoining bathroom.

“And this is your idea of a guest room?” Frank asks as he sets down the suitcases, eyebrows raised.

She shrugs. “It’s one of the smallest ones, but yeah.”

“Why even bother going to law school? You could live off your trust fund for the rest of your life, easy.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, plopping down on the bed. “But I wanted to _do_ something. I was always really close with the staff. The maids, cooks. I saw how they all got stepped on, and I want to help people like that. Make a difference.”

“Y’know, first time I met you, I thought you were just another idealistic goody-goody who’d run screaming the second you got a taste of what law school’s really like.”

Laurel scoffs. “What, and you don’t think I’m an idealistic goody-goody anymore?”

“Still do,” he tells her, surprisingly earnestly. “But I like that about you, now.”

The look in his eyes makes Laurel shiver, but she shakes it off. “Well, for the record, I still think you’re kind of a misogynistic ass.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “You wanna shower first?”

She shakes her head, and Frank steps inside the door to the bathroom. He doesn’t close it all the way behind him, however, affording her a clear line of sight to him from her spot on the bed. She’s about ninety percent sure he does it on purpose, and so she tries to look away, because for God’s sake, she’s not going to _ogle_ him while he undresses. That’s pervy, and that’s exactly what he wants, and she’s not taking the bait.

But her eyes gravitate right back to him regardless, just as he finishes undoing his waistcoat and casts it aside. Then, his hands go for the buttons of his dress shirt, parting it down the middle slowly and deliberately, in a way that lets her know he’s well aware she’s watching. She gulps, and when he finally removes the shirt completely, the temperature in the room shoots up what must be ten degrees.

He’s playing this like it’s a game. And dammit, it’s working.

Over the past few months, it’s not like she’s ever been able to forget just how hot Frank is; since they work together, she’s confronted by those mischievous blue eyes and that well-groomed beard and those tailored three-piece suits every single day of the week.

And Frank in a three-piece suit is hot as hell, sure, but out of it he’s even more so. His abs are toned to perfection, his biceps strong, bulky. She can remember what his firm pecks had felt like beneath her hands like it was only yesterday, and the memory, coupled with the sight of his body, makes that all too familiar warmth start to brew between her legs.

She tries to remind herself of Kan. Picture his body instead, but _God_ , he just pales in comparison.

Frank looks out and catches her eye just then. “This show isn’t free, babe.”

“I-” she stammers, humiliated. “I was not… I wasn’t _watching_ -”

“Sure you weren’t,” he teases. “You’re free to join me, y’know. Save water. California’s having a drought right now.”

That conjures up all sorts of filthy images in her head that she can’t ward off, and she’s sure he knows what he’s doing to her. He’s half-naked, smirking, asking her to shower with him, and dammit if that isn’t the most tempting offer Laurel has ever received in her life.

But if this is a game, then she’s going to play too. They’re on a level playing field, after all. Frank may have the advantage right now, but not for long; she’ll make sure of that.

Laurel tries to think of something witty to throw back at him, but fails and only ends up blurting out, “We’re not even _in_ California.”

“Touché,” he says with a shrug as he undoes his belt and reaches in to turn on the shower. “My offer still stands, in case you change your mind.”

Laurel doesn’t answer, and with that, Frank finally walks over and nudges the door all the way shut. As soon as he’s out of sight, she grabs a pillow and buries her face in it with a groan.

Christ, in what universe did she ever think it would be a good idea to bring _Frank_ along on a weekend getaway like this?

With him gone for the time being, that weird giddy fog clouding her thoughts dissipates, and she’s finally able to think clearly. She locates one of the maids and asks for ten pillows, which she brings back to the room and tosses down on the bed. Sure, she has to share it with Frank, who will almost certainly choose not to wear a shirt, but she can remedy this situation. Cling to the last few threads of fidelity to Kan she has.

She spends a few minutes erecting a rather impressive pillow barrier in between the two sides of the bed, five pillows long and two high. She can still see over to the other side if she tries, but it’s better than nothing, at least.

Laurel is in the middle of putting the finishing touches on it when Frank steps out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, his chest and hair still dripping wet. Immediately, she holds up a hand to shield herself from the sight – because if she could barely handle shirtless Frank, then she’s pretty sure she will most definitely not be able to handle shirtless _wet_ Frank.

“Frank!” she hisses. “Put on some clothes!”

He knits his eyebrows together, his hair flopping forward in the most disarming way. “My clothes are in my suitcase, which is out here. Relax.”

She won’t look. She won’t look. She won’t – oh. Yeah. Okay, so she looked a little, but she’s back to not looking again. That’s her story at least, and she’s sticking to it.

“Y-you’re unbelievable. Haven’t you ever heard of common courtesy?”

Frank ignores that and gestures to the pillow barrier. “You’re building a wall between us?”

“Yes,” she says to the ceiling, averting her eyes. “I think’s it’s probably best.”

“How many times am I gonna have to tell you that I won’t try anything before you believe me?”

It’s not even _him_ she’s worried about, honestly – but no way in hell will she ever admit that aloud.

“It-” she sighs, then hisses, “A lot of times, okay? Because I don’t.”

“We’re already fake dating,” he suggests nonchalantly. “There’s no reason we can’t fake bang it out a few times.”

“I can’t do that to Kan. I can’t cheat – again. With you.”

“And spending a weekend pretending to be dating me isn’t cheating?”

“No, it’s not. It is… completely justifiable fake-cheating.”

Frank looks skeptical. “Is it?”

“Yes,” she asserts, then makes for the bathroom door. “And have a shirt on by the time I’m done in the shower. Please.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

Laurel doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she just shuts the door behind her and locks it, in case Frank gets any ideas about hopping in with her.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Laurel wakes up to find the pillow barrier between them – thankfully – still intact.

She tries to roll over and fall back asleep since it’s only seven, but for some reason her mind won’t comply. Eventually, she gives up, sighs, and props herself up on her elbows, glancing over the pillows at Frank. He’s still fast asleep, lying on his side facing her, and for a moment she’s mesmerized by the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest, the way his hair is mussed and free from the gel he normally slicks it back with.

She’s happy he’s here, with her. She’s just happy to be _with_ him again.

She’s… _missed_ him.

The thought jolts her awake all at once, and she climbs out of bed carefully, so as to not disturb him. She unzips her luggage and rummages around until she finds what she’s looking for: a little white bikini. It’s perpetually freezing in Philadelphia, and she isn’t passing up this opportunity to swim in her family’s pool or hit their private beach. Quietly, she slips it on, grabs a pair of sunglasses and a towel, and makes her way downstairs.

The house is quiet, eerily still. No one but the maids are up yet, and so she’s able to take a dip in the pool in peace, letting her mind wander. She climbs out after a little while, and settles herself into one of the poolside lounge chairs. The morning sun is pleasantly hot, warming every inch of her skin, and she sighs, glad to finally have a moment to collect her thoughts.

She should text Kan. Hell, she should _call_ Kan, ask how he’s doing, what’s going on at work, but Kan and everyone else in Philly feel worlds away. The thought of him is almost unwelcome here, and the guilt she feels when she realizes that makes her gulp.  

Fifteen minutes pass, and it’s only then that she actually starts to feel the sizzle of the sun on her skin. She’d forgotten to put on sunblock, and if she doesn’t soon she’ll be as red as a tomato – which is not a very appealing prospect, given the slew of wedding photos they’ll be taking later today.

Laurel is just about to get to her feet and retreat back into the shade when a familiar deep voice behind her makes her freeze.

“Forget something?”

She looks behind her and finds Frank there, shirtless in a pair of swim trunks, holding out a tube of sunscreen. Since she’s wearing sunglasses, she knows he can’t see her eyes, and yeah, maybe that _is_ why she lets them linger on his chest for a few moments too long. It’s only fair, after all, because he’s probably been doing the same to her.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, reaching out for it. “Thanks.”

“Turn over. I got it.”

“Frank…” There’s a note of warning in her voice.

“C’mon,” he urges, and drops to his knees beside her. “Let me be a good boyfriend.”

Laurel thinks about protesting, but holds her tongue and flips over onto her stomach instead.

No one’s looking. No one has to know this ever happened. She'll deny it to her death.

And what happens in Palm Beach stays in Palm Beach.

Silently, Frank brushes her hair out of the way, lathers his hands in the sunscreen, and spreads it across the smooth expanse of her back. As soon as he touches her, her pulse quickens, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of the lack of clothing between them. His hands work gently, rubbing the lotion in at a leisurely pace, taking his time with her. He coats her upper back, then moves lower toward the curve of her ass, right where she’s trying to pretend she isn’t desperate for him to touch her.

She squirms. Her cheeks flush, though she chalks it up to the heat.

As if he knows exactly what he’s doing to her, Frank skips her lower back and goes straight for the backs of her legs instead. He massages the lotion into them for a while, before finally moving north once more and focusing his attention on the small of her back, near her bikini bottom, a region he hasn’t yet touched. Finally, he lotions that area up too, and then starts to smooth his hands lower, lower, until they’re brushing her ass, and if they could just slip a few inches inside her bikini they’d be directly over-

“Turn over,” he tells her again, startling her out of those thoughts.

She can’t see his face, but she can hear the smirk in his voice. Laurel holds back a groan of frustration.

She can’t believe she’d forgotten how much of an infuriating tease Frank is. 

She has given up trying to tell herself there’s nothing sexual about Frank lotioning up her entire body. It’s overtly sexual, and his hands are just as good as she remembers them: huge and rough, but tender, too. Instead of applying sunblock to her front, however, Frank sets the tube aside, leans in, and kisses her on her bare shoulder instead. His beard scrapes against her skin in the most delicious way, and Laurel swallows hard, trying not to writhe at the sensation.

She’s wet for him. There’s no denying it. There’s also no denying her visibly hardened nipples, which her thin white top does little to conceal. She’s sure by now Frank has noticed, because he notices everything.

If this is a game, she’s losing – badly.

“Frank,” she half-whimpers, trying desperately to regain control of the situation.

His voice is smooth, enticing. “Yes?”

“Don’t,” Laurel tries to tell him. He moves his lips higher, to her collarbone, and she inhales sharply when he sucks at the tender skin there. “You can’t… Kan-”

“-isn’t here,” he replies easily. “It’s just you and me.”

“ _Don’t_.”

The word is harsher, more forceful this time. Frank’s head snaps up to look at her, and the moment his eyes meet hers, the last shred of her self-control dissolves.

“Don’t… stop,” she finally breathes.

They haven’t even been fake-dating for twenty-four consecutive hours, and already she’s past the point of being able to resist him. When his hands creep further south, down between her legs, Laurel wonders how she ever thought she would be able to.

“Wish it wasn’t so cold all the time in Philly,” Frank remarks, the deep vibration of his voice making her skin tingle. “I’d kill to see you in bikinis more often.”

She almost can’t breathe. His lips are still on her collarbone, not moving any higher or any lower. His hand is hovering between her legs, and at any moment she knows he’ll push the crotch of her swimsuit to the side and find her clit and work it with his fingers until she’s flushed and begging.

The little voice telling her to defuse this situation is silenced by the rapid thumping of her heartbeat, so faint now that she can barely hear it.

“I’m still mad at you,” she tries to assert, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the chair. “I haven’t… forgiven you. For Sasha.”

“Then tell me,” he purrs as he moves his lips to her neck. “Is there anything I can do to earn your forgiveness?”

“No.”

“Hmm…” Frank hums lowly, amused. His hand brushes the wet patch steadily forming between her legs, clearly visible on the white fabric. “You sure about that?”

She inhales sharply at the feeling. “… No.”

He’s so close. Unbearably close, so much so that she can feel every twinge of every muscle inside him as he moves, and to make matters worse, they’re already both half-naked. Just one discarded pair of swim trunks, and a few undone strings on her bikini, and he would be inside her.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind them, however, kills that thought immediately.  

Laurel jumps, and Frank pulls away. When she looks behind her, she finds her mom standing there with her arms folded, looking far from pleased.

Unflappable as ever, Frank doesn’t even blink. He just stands, and greets her politely, “Mrs. Castillo.”

“Frank,” her mother acknowledges him coolly. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting something.”

She wants her parents to disapprove of Frank, of course, but being caught in a compromising situation like that with him, by her _mom_ … It’s humiliating. She goes even redder, and squeezes her thighs together, grateful that the sunglasses hide her eyes.

“No,” she says hastily. “No… we were just-”

“I came to tell you we’re boarding in half an hour,” she interrupts. “So you two might want to get ready.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just turns around and disappears back into the house, though her disapproval is almost palpable.

Frank waits a minute, then looks to her again and wriggles his eyebrows. “So. What do you say we finished what we started?”

For a second Laurel is tempted to say yes, but then she thinks of Kan – sweet, sweet, wonderful Kan – and makes herself shake her head, springing to her feet.

“No,” she says, unconvincing even to her own ears, and turns to leave him. “We should… we should go.”

 

\--

 

The Castillo family yacht is fittingly extravagant. Her father never settles for anything less, after all.

It’s luxury-sized, with cherry wood and beige leather interiors. The main cabin below deck is filled with enough round tables and chairs to seat thirty, each with an impeccable arrangement of flowers in the center. Frank, clad in a casual daytime suit, just raises his eyebrows and loops his hand around her waist, taking it all in without a word.

Laurel had chosen a tasteful orange sundress that ends at her knees and accentuates her slim waist, which her mother remarks on almost immediately upon seeing her, just seconds before she whisks the two of them away to make the proper introductions to her siblings.

Her brothers are both there, as well as her sister and her sister’s fiancé, a skinny man about thirty years-old, just as stuck-up as everyone around him. He comes from money too – that’s all Laurel knows – and eyes Frank with the same sort of suspicion her parents had.

Before brunch is served, she leaves Frank alone for half an hour with her immediate family to catch up with a few of her cousins. It’s a tactical move, and entirely planned; she’s almost sure her parents will jettison all pretense of politeness in her absence and tear him to shreds. Not that she wants to subject Frank to that, of course, but it’s his chance to make himself look as bad as he possibly can.

She leaves Frank alone with her family for thirty minutes. By the time she gets back, he has them eating out of the palm of his hand.

The sound of laughter at the table makes her frown, because that definitely isn’t what she wants to hear. When she draws nearer, she sees that everyone has a smile on their face – even her father. Her mother and sister are laughing, like she’s never seen them laugh before.

And in the middle of it all is Frank, leaning back with a drink in his hand, and mingling with the elite as if he’s been doing it his whole life. 

He has obviously just finished telling some kind of joke, because her father reaches over and claps him on the back, laughing raucously. The sight makes Laurel’s scowl deepen.

“ _Mija_!” her dad calls out, noticing her lingering behind the table. “There you are. You’ve been missing out on all of Frank’s stories! Did you know he studied abroad in Brunei?”

 _Brunei_. Well, he’d definitely pulled that one out of his ass.

“I didn’t, actually,” she says through her teeth. “Frank, can I talk to you for a minute?”

He stands and sets down his drink. “Sure thing, babe.”

“Don’t keep him too long, dear!” her mother calls out after them as they ascend the stairs. “He still has to tell me about the time he spent soul-searching with the Tibetan monks in Mongolia!”

“Tibetan monks?” she hisses once they’re above deck and out of earshot of her parents, smacking him on the arm. “Frank, what the _hell_?”

“What was that for?”

“You know what that was for!” Laurel exclaims. One of the passing wait staff gives them an odd look, and so she tugs him over to the railing. “That was not the plan! The plan was to piss them off! Make them hate you – not love you.”

“What can I say?” He shrugs. “I’m irresistible.”

“W-what could you possibly have told them to make them like you so much?”

“Told them I graduated from Middleton and own my own law firm: Delfino, Keating & Associates. Also that I’m totally anti-gun control, always vote Republican, and that I’d make sure you quit your job if we got married to stay at home with our four kids, who would, of course, all be baptized Catholic,” he rattles the list off nonchalantly. “They ate it up.”

She gapes at him. “So you won them over by lying and being a misogynistic ass.”

He gives another infuriating shrug. “Broke out the ole’ Spanish on your mom, too.”

“You speak Spanish?”

“Beyond ‘hola’ and ‘como estas’ and ‘eres tan hermosa,’ no. But that was enough,” he tells her. “Oh, and get this: your dad invited me to go hunting _and_ golfing next time we’re in town.”

Laurel has to resist the urge to scream. “You don’t hunt _or_ golf!”

“Not as far as he knows. How hard can it be?”

She can’t believe this. Her whole plan has backfired right in her face. Every single guy she’d brought home wanting her parents to like, they’d hated. Now, finally the _one guy_ she wants them to hate, they love, and that one guy is standing in front of her, his stupid blue eyes dancing with amusement like he thinks this is all some big joke, and she really just wants to bash his fucking face in.

“ _Why_?” she demands. “Why would you do this? You knew this isn’t what I wanted!”

Frank scoffs. “Did you ever think maybe I didn’t want to be part of your little teenage rebellion, Laurel? I like you. A lot. And I wanna be with you – a lot. So I’m not gonna purposely be a dick to your parents to make them hate me.”

“So you did this to – what? On the off chance it might make me want to _get with_ you again?” she spits. “That’s not happening. A-and I’m sorry I even asked you to come! I can’t believe-”

“Laurel?” her brother’s voice cuts her off. “They’re serving the food.”

“Yeah,” she calls back, trying not to sound as exasperated as she feels. “We’ll be there in a sec.”

Still fuming, Laurel turns back to Frank, who chides, “Try to put on a happy face, _dear_.”

Oh, God. She’s going to kill him. She really is.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Will do, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “Or would you prefer ‘sugar’? ‘Snookums?’”

“If you don’t stop, Frank, I am going to push you overboard.”

“Aw, you wouldn’t do that to your loving boyfriend, would you?” At that, she glares daggers at him. Frank just grins again, and takes a step back towards the stairs. “Now come on. Your folks are waiting."


	5. Chapter 5

The ceremony is a typical Catholic wedding: long, boring, and stuffy.

It’s held in a church – which Laurel thinks is a huge waste, given the abundance of beautiful beaches around them, but her parents had probably insisted. Since all the bridesmaids positions were filled ahead of time by her sister’s old sorority and boarding school friends, she isn’t a bridesmaid; an obvious slight, but it’s not like she really cares. Instead, she just sits in the audience with her family and Frank, who, by the third Scripture reading, has started to nod off next to her.

It’s black tie dress code. She’s in a forest-green cocktail dress, accented by nude heels and a silver necklace. He’s in a tux, which he wears as well as he wears his three-piece suits. Not that she cares, however, because she’s still angry at him – even after he’d seen her in her dress for the first time earlier that day, and his eyes had softened, and he’d told her she looked beautiful in a voice dripping with sincerity.

She’s still angry. Or at least that’s what she’s trying to tell herself.

The reception is held in a posh country club in West Palm Beach, near the ocean. The place settings and centerpieces on the tables are impeccable, the cake almost as tall as Laurel herself. There’s the open bar she’d promised Frank, too; a fact he immediately takes advantage of – and she isn’t going to lie, so does she. She takes her place with him at a table with her parents and siblings after a little while, champagne in hand, sitting through just about every cliché speech and toast in the book.

After the toasts, Laurel slips away from the table, avoiding Frank and her parents and picking idly at a few platters of hors d'oeuvres. She’s not really in the mood for conversation, and her plan works well for a while, until her tipsy mother somehow manages to sniff her out like a shark in the water, and pulls her aside on the outskirts on the dancefloor to talk.

“Well,” she begins with a smile, glancing in the direction of their table. “I must say, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by Frank.”

Laurel sighs. “You and dad have never liked any of my other boyfriends. Why him?”

“He’s interesting. Funny. Successful. Owns his own firm. Seems to want a future with you. And let’s face it: we both know he’s easy on the eyes.”

“Mom-”

“I mean it, dear. That beard – good _God_. If I was a younger woman…”

Laurel cringes. _That_ is a mental image she does not need.

“Mom!”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry. But you’ve chosen well. Even your father thinks so.”

“Frank’s thirty-eight,” Laurel divulges, fishing for even the tiniest scrap of disapproval. “I’m only twenty-four. Don’t you think he’s too old for me?”

“Age is just a number. And when a man looks like he does, does it really matter?”

She has a point, Laurel concedes mentally. A very good one.

“Besides,” her mother continues. “He said he’d keep you at home with the kids. I like that.”

“Frank’s not keeping me at home. No guy’s going to… _keep_ me at home.”

“Eventually you’ll reconsider. Your maternal instincts will take over, wait and see, and you’ll make me a grandma, instead of chasing after this career nonsense. If you married Frank, just think of how adorable your babies would be.”

“We’re not going to get married, okay? I don’t even know how serious this thing is between us.”

The older woman shrugs. “It seems serious enough to him. You can tell by the way he looks at you.”

Laurel’s eyes fall upon Frank across the room just then. He’s talking with her brother at their table, sipping his drink and looking completely at ease. Hell, he looks more comfortable with her family than _she_ does.

Frowning in contemplation, she looks back to her mother. “W-what do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean,” she replies cryptically, and leaves Laurel with that, disappearing back into the throng of people.

And yeah, Laurel knows perfectly well what she means. Knows that soft, meaningful look Frank always gets in his eyes when he sees her.

However, she shakes the thought away, and reaches for another flute of champagne when one of the servers passes by. She downs it quickly, and shortly afterward, a few of her favorite cousins all but yank her onto the dancefloor. A fast-paced reggaeton song is booming over the speakers, and although she protests at first, she eventually caves and joins in.

She isn’t much of a dancer, but the music _is_ the one thing that makes these kind of family events sort of tolerable. Before long she is dancing and laughing and spinning and clapping her hands in time with the lively Latin beat. She loses herself in it, not really caring how stupid she looks. She can’t remember the last time she felt so carefree.

Every so often, she catches Frank’s eye from where he sits at the table. He seems to have dropped everything to watch her dance, and she can feel his hungry eyes, burning into her from a distance.

Eventually, the music slows. The first few soothing chords of ‘Wonderful Tonight’ come over the speakers, and the crowd thins out accordingly, a few couples making the semi-awkward transition to a slow dance.

Laurel is about to vacate the floor too, when suddenly a familiar voice stops her in her tracks.

“Dance with me.”

Surprised, she turns and finds Frank there, holding out his hand to her.

She doesn’t take it at first, just stares at him unsurely and furrows her brow. “You dance?”

“No,” he admits. “All you have to do is sway. C’mon. This is the first song that’s been in English all night.”

Laurel hesitates, but takes his hand and lets him lead her back onto the floor, in the middle of the remaining couples. He sews his fingers in with hers, placing his other hand on the small of her back to draw her close. It takes them a minute to find a rhythm, but they do, and he’s right: it’s not really anything more than slow swaying.

She’d forgotten how good it feels to be so close to him. And this… they’ve never done anything like this. This is nice.

Really nice.

“I’m still mad at you,” she declares suddenly.

Frank doesn’t look like he believes her for a second. “Are you?”

 _No_. “Yes.”

“So let me get this straight. You’re mad at me because your parents don’t hate me? Because you finally found a boyfriend they like?”

“I had a plan I asked you to follow, and you said you would, and you didn’t.”

“True. But y’know, maybe they’re right about me.”

She scoffs. “Almost everything you told them was a lie, Frank.”

“It was. But maybe they’re right about us,” he murmurs, urging her closer. “Maybe they’re right… that I’m right for you.”

Laurel swallows. She’s not having much success dissuading him, it seems. Time for a change in tactics.

“Yeah, well, you said you wouldn’t try anything, and you did this morning at the pool. I-I didn’t appreciate that.”

Instead of shrugging that off, he looks surprisingly genuine. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Just… stop trying to get me into bed. It’s not going to work, and I thought I made it clear that’s not what this weekend was about.”

“It won’t happen again. Not unless you want it. I promise.”

 _Not unless you want it_. She wants it. She hopes the fact isn’t written all over her face.

“Okay,” Laurel mutters. “Thank you.”

They sway for a minute like that in silence. She can feel his breath on her cheek, his eyes locked onto hers. They’re so close that she can see the tiny flecks of green in his eyes. Laurel takes a deep breath, feeling her palm go clammy in his.

“How did you do it?” she asks. “Win them over so easily? Every single boyfriend I’ve ever brought home, my dad has torn to shreds and not-so-subtly threatened with his collection of firearms. I just don't understand what made you different.”

“I’m a good liar. And as long as you can lie and pretend to belong, people automatically assume you do. Plus, you gave me a list of all the right things to say.”

“Soul-searching with Tibetan monks,” she chuckles. “Where’d you come up with that one?”

“No idea.”

The song changes. The music slows, and he moves his hand lower, urging her closer.

She moves away slightly. “Frank…”

“What?” he teases. “This isn’t prom. We don’t have to leave room for Jesus.”

Laurel laughs, and lets Frank pull her back against him. “I never went to my high school prom, you know.”

“Why not?”

“School dances just weren’t my thing,” she says, her voice thin and airy. “And I was shy in high school. No guy ever asked me.”

“Then they missed out, big time. Because between you and me, my girlfriend’s a total stunner.”

Suddenly, Laurel realizes just how close they are. Her breasts are pushed up against his chest. Their noses are almost brushing. Her knees feel shaky, her stomach doing flip-flops inside her, and she knows she must be flushed. Almost without realizing it, she leans in closer still.

“Kiss me,” she breathes suddenly. “E-everyone’s watching. My mom and my dad and-”

He closes the gap between them before she has time to finish. They stop swaying. She reaches up and curls her arms around the back of his neck as he deepens the kiss, his tongue so far in her mouth that she can taste every drop of liquor on his tongue. She can’t believe she’d forgotten what kissing Frank feels like, how it makes adrenaline shoot through her veins like fire. She can’t believe she ever denied herself this. _Him_.

But she’s only doing this to put on a convincing show. It’s not like she actually wants to – but she does. _God_ she does.

That realization of just how much she wants him is what makes her break away and lick her lips, still tasting the kiss they’d just ended. Then, she thinks of Kan, and the guilt settles in like a fat rock in her stomach.

Frank leans in again, but she breaks away and steps back, shaking her head.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I, uh…” she drifts off. “I’m sorry. I-I have to go.”

“Go? Where’re you gonna _go_?”

“I don’t know,” she hisses, and then lowers her voice upon drawing the looks of several couples around them. “Don’t follow me. Please.”

With that, Laurel stalks away before Frank has time to protest again. Her whole body is tingling, and her legs feel like jelly, and she’s wet. She can smell Frank’s cologne all over herself, which is only making her wetter. And she should not be wet for a guy who isn’t her boyfriend. She shouldn’t be _kissing_ a guy who isn’t her boyfriend.

She hides in the women’s restroom for a while under the pretense of fixing her makeup, when really she’s just trying to calm herself down somewhere Frank can’t find her. Laurel steps back out just in time for the tossing of the bouquet. She dodges Frank, slipping into the crowd of women reaching out their arms and raising hers to blend in.

And – of course – fate would have it that the bouquet flies directly into her hands. Her mother laughs, and mentions something about some stupid superstition that she’ll be the next one to get married.

Across the room, she catches Frank’s eye.

 

\--

 

It’s almost midnight when she and Frank share a car back to the house. The loose curls in her hair have all fallen out. Her mascara is dry and crusty on her eyelashes. She’s tired, and confused, and still slightly aroused, and her feet hurt from wearing her heels for so long. All she really wants to do is lie down and sleep the day off.

When they step into their room, she finds that the pillow barrier is still undamaged. Tonight, Laurel thinks she’s going to need it.

Frank shrugs off his jacket and offers to let her shower first, but she shakes her head, sinks down on the bed, and gestures for him to go instead. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to talk to her; he only ambles off into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

Laurel has just pulled down the zipper on the back of her dress when she hears him turn on the shower on the other side of the door, and immediately, she freezes, remembering suddenly how he’d offered to let her join him in the shower yesterday.

And all at once, her libido makes her very much aware of the fact that Frank is just on the other side of the door, wet, hot, and very naked.

She’s so turned on she can feel her heartbeat in her clit. She thinks of his lips, how they’d felt on hers; his beard, how it had scratched at her face in that way that makes her hotter than she can ever say – but it’s wrong, even if it’s what she wants. Even if she wants it so badly that she goes weak at the thought of touching Frank. She has Kan waiting at home. Wonderful, amazing, sweet, perfect, gentle-

But she knows what she wants, and what – or rather, _who_ – she wants is right here, right behind this door.

And what happens in Palm Beach stays in Palm Beach.

Her heart thumping madly inside her, she opens the bathroom door as quietly as she can and slips inside. She can see the silhouette of Frank’s body behind the frosted glass shower door, her soft footsteps masked by the hiss of the water.

With trembling fingers, Laurel tugs her dress over her head, and makes off with her necklace. Her bra and panties disappear next, flung carelessly on the floor. Her body is burning so much that she can’t sit still.

So she doesn’t. Instead she reaches out, slides open the shower door, and steps in with him. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes. Time for smut. It was inevitable in this fic, honestly.

“Laurel?”

Frank turns and furrows his brow. He’s buck naked, his chest soaking wet and gleaming. Little droplets of water cling to his hair and beard, and drip down the sides of his face. His eyes are wide with surprise.

She tries not to look down between his legs – she really does – but fails miserably, and _that_ sight only makes her ten times hornier.

Laurel doesn’t waste any more time taking in the sight of him. Instead, she takes one step toward Frank, stands on her tiptoes, and kisses him before he can say another word, pushing him back against the cold tile wall. The shower is the raining kind, pouring down on them from above and soaking her completely within seconds. Her makeup runs. Her breasts brush his chest, the nipples hardening into stiff peaks.

Frank pulls back, and looks to be about to open his mouth to say something when she cuts him off.

“Don’t. I’m not here to talk.”

Before she can protest, he has reversed their positions, pressing her up against the wall instead and swiftly taking control of the situation.

“Then what, exactly,” he asks, “are you here for?”

At first Laurel doesn’t give an answer, and so he gropes between her legs to elicit one. She’s wet, very obviously _not_ from the shower water, and silently, Laurel curses her body for betraying just how badly she needs him.

“You _know_ what I’m here for,” she hisses, as she feels him start to harden against her thigh.

Desperate to regain the upper hand, Laurel reaches down and takes his cock in hand, stroking him as he lengthens and thickens in her palm. That draws a low grunt from Frank, and he is quick to move her hands away, lace their fingers together, and pin her hands against the wall behind her. He presses his body up against her, leaving her all but incapable of moving.

“What happened to, ‘Stop trying to get me into bed?’” he teases.

Laurel frowns, and maneuvers her hands out of his grasp. “This is a one-time thing. And what happens in Palm Beach… stays in Palm Beach.”

“Does it now?”

“Yes. Now just…” she drifts off, giving an urgent little whimper. “Just _do it_.”

Watching her closely, he lifts one of her legs and holds it at his side, leaving her wide open for him. With his forehead pressed against hers, Frank takes his cock in hand and glides it gently across her folds, and then higher, to her clit, but doesn't enter her.

She inhales sharply, and he grins. “Do what?”

“Frank-” Laurel moans when she feels him place his sodden tip at her entrance and leave it there, unmoving, just to taunt her. She almost growls in frustration, so crazy with want that she could cry. “You know what I mean.”

“Mmm,” he acknowledges lowly. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Laurel may be losing this game they’re playing, but she’s determined not to give him that satisfaction, and so she clenches her jaw.

“ _No_.”

He guides himself against her clit again, harder this time. “Say it.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“You want me to go fuck myself?” he quips. “That wouldn’t be very fun for you.”

“ _Frank_ …”

Her voice is a broken plea now, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. The head of his cock is between her drenched folds again, positioned in just the right way to slip inside her, any second now, if he would just fucking _take her_ already. Her cunt is twitching and quivering, as though trying to grasp what isn’t there.

He has her right where he wants her. He has all the power; he could give her what she wants or deny her, and it’s so frustratingly hot that Laurel wants to scream.

Another false start. Frank moves forward, almost like he’s about to enter her, then just as swiftly pulls back. That draws a hoarse moan from her.

“Fine,” she spits, hips bucking forward to try to draw him into her. “Just _fuck_ me!”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Laurel is about to open her mouth to snap at him, when finally Frank puts her out of her misery and enters her in one short stroke, burying himself as deep as he can go. And she hasn’t been with a tonof guys in her life, but she’s been with enough to know that Frank is above average – _way_ above average, in both length and girth. At first it almost hurts, pleasure and pain surging between her legs and making her tense.

She cries out so loudly that he pauses, and gives her a moment to readjust to his size. It’s been long enough that she’s forgotten what it feels to be so deliciously, ridiculously full, stretched to her limits, every single inch of her occupied by _him_ – and as much as it hurts at first, it feels ten times as amazing when the pain fades and she lets herself relax.

“Good?” he asks, his voice surprisingly steady.

“B-big,” she chokes out. “ _God_.”

Frank chuckles, pulling all the way out before slamming into her again, almost bottoming out, so far inside her that she can feel every single rock-hard inch of him. Then, he leans in and kisses her, grazing her bottom lip with his teeth, just enough to flavor the pleasure with a prick of pain, but not enough to actually hurt. Laurel coils her arms around him, her fingers struggling to find purchase on his wet back.

Her mind is blank, her senses numbed by the repeated sound of skin slapping against skin. This isn’t the most optimal position for sex; Laurel would really rather Frank throw her down on the bed outside and have his way with her there, but she supposes there _is_ something to be said for wet, slippery shower sex.

“Fuck, princess,” he growls into her neck. “Couldn’t resist, huh?”

His bravado is simultaneously turning her on and really pissing her off, and so Laurel clenches her jaw, dragging her manicured fingernails down his back hard enough to leave scrapes – and maybe even cuts – behind. He hisses in pain, and tightens his hold on her waist, squeezing so hard she feels like she might break in half. He reaches up and massages her breasts roughly, until the pressure of her impending orgasm has built to such a height that she can do nothing but moan helplessly, close her eyes, and beg him to go faster.

His thrusts are growing more erratic, less steady, and deeper. He’s losing himself too, and groans into her neck. “Out?”

At first Laurel isn’t sure what he means, but realizes quickly and shakes her head. Still, she’s grateful; the last thing she needs is to be knocked up by _Frank_ , of all people, and in the heat of the moment she’s not always great at remembering that safe sex is even a thing.  

“’M on the pill. I’m gonna – I-I’m close, _ah_ -”

Taking the hint, Frank reaches down to massage her clit, and nibbles on her earlobe, and that finally tips Laurel over the edge. She throws her head back against the tile wall and moans, her vision going white, and Frank’s rhythm breaks almost at the exact same moment. They come at the same time, crying out together, and _God_ , she’s never felt something so incredibly hot.   

They stay like that for a few minutes as they recover, holding each other underneath the pleasantly warm drizzle of water. Frank hasn’t pulled out; he’s still inside of her, and just remaining like that in the stillness, still joined, is a kind of intimacy she’s never felt before.

Laurel waits for the crushing guilt to come. To remind her how terrible and awful and unfaithful and _slutty_ she is.

It never does. Not even when Frank pulls away, tugs her out of the shower, and lays her down on the bed outside, kissing every single inch of her damp, naked skin. The million thread-count sheets soak through immediately. They’re still dripping wet, but neither of them care.

Frank throws the barrier of pillows off the bed so hard that they knock over the lamp on the nightstand. It lands on the floor with a _crack_ , the glass shattering.

The guilt never comes. Quickly, Laurel gives up on waiting.

 

\--

 

In the morning, they wake up early, put on their swimsuits, and go down to the beach to watch the sunrise.

Laurel is exhausted; they’d spent almost all night fucking, and every time she takes a step, she winces, a dull ache radiating between her legs. But when she glances sideways, and looks at Frank walking next to her, she can hardly feel the pain at all. When she looks at him, and finds him looking back, she’s so happy that she almost floats.

She’d forgotten how being with him feels. Her cheeks are flushed, her stomach flopping giddily inside her, like she’s a teenager with her first boyfriend all over again. She doesn’t know what it is about Frank that does that to her, that makes her feel so… alive. They jive so naturally, like she never really has with anyone else. 

They miss the sunrise.

Instead, they end up having sex in the surf. They get sand in all kinds of uncomfortable nooks and crannies, and her bikini top almost washes away in the process, and the saltwater stings her, but by the time they finish they’re laughing so hard that they don’t care.

“So,” he says afterwards, as they’re walking back to the house. “Your old bedroom around here somewhere?”

She scoffs. “Yeah. But you don’t want to go there. Trust me.”

“Oh come on. How bad can it be?”

“Fine,” she relents with a sigh. “But no matter what, you don’t get to laugh.”

Reluctantly, Laurel leads him up the stairs and down another hallway, but stops in front of the door to reiterate, “No laughing, remember?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She doesn’t believe him for a second. She pulls open the door anyway, and waits for the inevitable laughter.

Needless to say, it doesn’t take long to come.

There are at least half a dozen posters of boybands, mainly the Backstreet Boys and N*SYNC, but with one New Kids on the Block thrown into the mix, too. She’d never really updated her room beyond the age of fourteen, and as such, there’s a small army of stuffed animals strewn about as well, in all colors and shapes and sizes. The carpet and walls and comforter are all pink, frilly. A huge stuffed banana she’d won at a local fair sits in the corner, appraising them with wide cartoony eyes.

The moment she hears Frank start to laugh, she scowls. “Frank…”

“Sorry,” he chortles. “I’m sorry. Someone went through a _major_ boyband phase.”

She blushes. “You’re the worst. I never should’ve showed you.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes. “But, as long as we’re here…”

Swiftly, he reaches out and pulls her over to the twin-sized bed, tugging her into his lap. He kisses her, and Laurel laughs against his mouth.

“I should’ve known there was only one reason you wanted to come here.”

Frank shrugs, unabashed. “What do you say we christen the mattress?”

“Someone already beat you to that, actually,” she teases.

“Really? Who?”

“Diego. My nanny’s nephew. When we were fifteen.”

“Too bad,” he laments. “I would’ve liked to be your first, y’know.”

“Virginity is an archaic social construct that shames women for losing it but congratulates men.”

“Still,” he murmurs. “I would’ve liked that.”

Laurel can’t help but smile back. “Yeah. I would’ve liked it too.”

“I can’t do it in here anyway. It’s kinda hard to get it up with a voyeuristic-looking stuffed banana staring you down.”

She giggles. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is Pinky the Banana offending you?”

“He’s killing the mood, is what he’s doing. Either he goes or I do. Who’s it gonna be?”

Laurel feigns a look of contemplation. “That’s a hard choice.”

“Is it?” he chuckles, then lowers his lips to the tops her breasts, kissing them slowly, and then reaching up his hands to stroke them, too.

“Yes,” she breathes.

She squirms, and promptly winces. She’s still aching from their marathon lovemaking session the night before, but instead of turning her off, the pain has the opposite effect. All she can think is how empty she feels without him inside her, filling her, stretching her in just the right way. She doesn’t know how she’d gone so long without it.

“Is it _really_?” he purrs, breaking into her filthy reverie. 

He undoes the strings on her black bikini top. It falls away, and he seals his lips around one nipple almost immediately, his hands moving lower and palming her ass. They fall back onto the bed with her on top, and just as she is about to do away with the rest of her swimsuit, she pulls back with a grin.

“No.” It’s not a hard choice. Not at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter! I know I said this would be around eight or nine chapters, but I felt like it was drawing to a close a bit sooner. Thanks for reading ;) You're all wonderful.

They pack their bags Sunday evening.

Her parents meet them in the grand foyer to say their goodbyes. Laurel hugs and kisses them, then watches as her prescription-med-loopy mother shamelessly kisses Frank on each cheek, hugging him way tighter and longer than necessary.  

“You two _have_ to come back soon,” she gushes. “For Easter dinner! And no breaking up.”

Laurel tries not to roll her eyes. “We’ll do our best, mom.”

“You know, _mija_ ,” her father says. “I haven’t liked many of your boyfriends. But Frank? Frank here, I like.”

Frank grins. “I appreciate it, sir.”

Laurel shifts her weight from leg to leg. God, even hearing him be polite to her father turns her on. There must be something wrong with her.

“Sir!” he laughs. “Listen to this guy! Next time you’re in town we’re going out on the range. If your swing is as good as you say, you might have a shot at beating me!”

“Anything for the future father-in-law.”

Her mother clasps her hands together in delight. Her father laughs again, reaching over to clap Frank on the back. It’s all getting a bit too syrupy sweet for Laurel, and so she clears her throat to put an end to it.

“We should probably get going,” she pipes up. “I’ll call you once we land, ‘kay?”

They turn to head for the door, when her mother calls out after them, “Bye, honey! And buh-bye, Frank.”

Her voice audibly lowers when she says his name, almost to a purr. Hearing that, Frank looks back and winks at her, earning him a smack on the arm from Laurel.

“Could you maybe not flirt with my mom in front of me, please?” she asks once they’re outside.

“Oh c’mon. I’m just working the old Delfino charm.”

“Well, you can stop. You accomplished your mission. They’re already planning our wedding.”

He stops in front of the car and opens one of the doors for her, eyes dancing. “Think your mom probably would’ve jumped my bones if you and your pops hadn’t been there.”

Laurel scoffs, as Frank slides in next to her and reaches for the seatbelt. They spend the rest of the drive talking relatively cordially, though every so often Laurel will look over and see him eyeing her with a heated look that lets her know exactly what he’d rather be doing. And yeah, she can’t say it’s not what she’d rather be doing too, but it’s not like they can _have sex_ in the backseat again, with the driver only feet away. She still has some sense of decency, however miniscule it may be at this point.

They make it to the airport and board the private jet after what feels like an eternity. Frank waits until her nerves have calmed after takeoff, and only then does he pull her into his lap on the couch and kiss her.

“So,” he murmurs. “What do you say we join the mile-high club?”

His lips move to her neck, and she sighs, melting against him. “Look, Frank, this… this is the last time, okay? Once we land, this ends. For good.”

Frank pulls back. Something almost like hurt flickers in his eyes, and it makes her gulp, her stomach twisting. She’s dreading landing just as much as he is; she doesn’t want this weekend to end – not really. But she knows it has to, and so she stays quiet, waiting for him to answer.

Like always, however, Frank recovers quickly, and breaks into a smile. “Well, then we’ll have to make the best of our time, huh?”

 

\--

 

They land a few hours later. Frank helps her with her bags, and just as they start to walk across the runway in the direction of the building, he circles an arm around her from behind, stopping her in her tracks.

“I’ll get us a taxi,” he urges. “We can go back to my place.”

Laurel pulls away and frowns. “What?”

“Come on. We’ll order in. Spend the rest of the night in bed. I’ll reward you.”

“Frank…” She shakes her head. “I meant what I said before. This, whatever this was, it’s over now. We’re back in the real world – and I have a boyfriend. A _real_ boyfriend.”

“A real boyfriend you just spent the entire weekend cheating on. With me. _Again_. Wake up, Laurel. Quit ignoring the fact that we have something here.”

“I’m sorry if I led you on, or made you think-”

“Led me on?” he scoffs. “ _You’re_ the one who hopped in the shower with me. So excuse me if I somehow got the wrong idea.”

“I told you from the start, this was only for the weekend. That’s not how things with us can be – again. A-and it’s not like this _meant_ anything.”

“Didn’t mean anything,” he echoes in disbelief. “You know that’s not true. I know you feel what I feel. You can pretend you don’t, Laurel, but you do.” He lowers his voice, eyes full of sincerity. “I know you do.”

“No, I don’t,” she makes herself say. “I needed a boyfriend this weekend, and you helped me out and I’m grateful for that. But beyond that…”

Laurel drifts off, lowering her eyes, her cheeks burning red underneath the intensity of his gaze. Frank’s scowl deepens.

“So what?” he demands. “We pretend this weekend never happened? Go back to how it was? Ignoring each other?”

“What happens in Palm Beach stays in Palm Beach. I thought we agreed on that.”

The words fall flat between them, heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of them speak. Finally, Frank just shakes his head, grabs his suitcase, and starts to walk away.

“You agreed on that. _I_ didn’t.”

Laurel doesn’t know what to say to that, and so she blurts out, “Where’re you going? My dad arranged a taxi to pick us up.”

“I’ll get a damn Uber,” he calls back over his shoulder, an obvious bite in his tone. “See ya Monday.”

He leaves her with that, and she watches him go, standing with her suitcase at her side and a sinking feeling in her stomach.

 

\--

 

Laurel goes home to Kan.

He’s lying in her bed shirtless, reading a book and waiting up for her. When he looks at her, he smiles, and it’s a comfort, to always know he’ll be there. That, in him, she’ll always have a warm bed with a light on at the end of a hard night.

It’s what Laurel needs: that constancy, that kind of fidelity and safety. She’s no longer entirely sure it’s what she really _wants_.

The work week drags on and seems interminable. She avoids Frank at the office, and he very obviously puts a lot of effort into doing the same. They both make sure they’re never alone together. Every time they happen to lock eyes, Laurel looks away as fast as humanly possible.  

She lugs herself home Friday night, exhausted and feeling like a thousand-pound bag of bricks. She’d told Kan she was working late, and that had only been half a lie, but the truth is… She doesn’t want to see him. Not really. She physically can’t make herself fake smiles and laughs for his sake tonight, just to keep him from suspecting anything is amiss.

Laurel plops down on her couch and lies down, stewing in her misery – until three sharp knocks on her door snap her out of it.

Frowning, she gets up and makes her way over to the door, standing on her tiptoes to look through the peephole. As soon as she does, she finds herself confronted by a tiny, distorted image of Frank on the other side.

Fantastic. Exactly the person she doesn’t – and _does_ – want to see.

Reluctantly, Laurel wrenches open the door and folds her arms, taking in the sight of him, still dressed in his suit from work with a bottle of wine in one hand. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at her with his eyebrows raised, and she sighs.

“What’re you doing here?”

“What, a guy can’t pay a friendly visit to his co-worker?”

“Not when that guy is _you_ and that co-worker is _me_.” She pauses, relaxing somewhat. “I thought you were mad at me.”

Frank shrugs. “I got over it.”

“Frank… this isn’t-”

“Look, before you start, hear me out,” he interrupts her. “I get why you think we wouldn’t work. I get why you think this is a bad idea. But give me a chance, Laurel. One chance. And if you decide we aren’t right for each other after that, I’ll leave you alone and never bother you again. I promise.”

Laurel purses her lips into a line, not knowing what to say to that.

As if sensing the fact that she’s wavering, he holds up the bottle of wine. “So what do you say? Tonight? You, me, and a bottle of wine?”

“Like a date?” she clarifies.

“Your words. Not mine.”

“Fine,” Laurel tells him, after a moment of hesitation. “You have one chance. One. So… don’t blow it.”

“Don’t intend to. Now, you gonna make me stand out here all night or what?”

Slowly, very slowly, a smile creeps onto her face. And then she steps aside and lets him in.

Of course she does. She’s never been able to shut him out, no matter how hard she’s tried.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments are much appreciated!  
> Currently taking prompts for Flaurel askbox ficlets over on [tumblr](http://laurelcasfillo.tumblr.com/)! Send some my way.


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